Another New Life

Another New Life - Chapter 1

If something is to good to be true, it probably is.

I embraced that quote. Wrapped my long arms around it and couldn't seem to let it go.

I lived my life by the philosophy that if you always expect the worst, you won't ever be disappointed.

I wasn't born with this impending sense of doom in the pit of my stomach. I acquired it somewhere, but even as I get older and wiser, I could not get rid of it. For the past ten years, I managed my life but never lived it. I swayed somewhere between panic and numb. The only way I managed to avoid full-on nervous breakdown mode every other second was by pounding away on a piano at least once a day.

Imagine where my nerves were today. I'd been on campus a week with no access to my lifeline until today. My new life was taking a bit longer to get used to then I hoped. Ha. Hope. That's a new one for me.

As I crossed campus, the music hall in sight, I felt my anxiety dissipate. I exhaled, but the shriek of my phone made my chest tighten. I knew it had to be my parents. Besides my roommate, no one else had my number.

I sat down on the hard, unyielding, concrete bench beside the door. The bench mirrored the conversation I was about to have with my Mom and Dad.

"Betsky," my dad yelled.

I pulled the phone away to avoid damaging an eardrum. At the same time, I cringed from the use of his invented nickname for me: a clever combination of Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. He loved the idea of having a classical pianist for a daughter. I didn't have the heart to tell him I related more to Rachmaninov and Bendel. Believe me, Dad didn't know the different between Rachmaninov and Rumpelstiltskin.

"Hi, Dad."

"It's so great to hear your voice," he said.

"Yeah."

"You are doing okay." It wasn't so much a question, but a suggestion. Every sentence he uttered ended in a silent, "I'm sorry." I shifted from one butt cheek to the other, trying to get comfortable.

He had things to be sorry for, but it didn't matter anymore.

"Miranda." Mom's false compassionate voice she used on clients came crawling through the phone.

"Hi," I said.

"How are you? How's school? What have you done since you arrived?" Her questions came fast and quick, and she continued to speak without giving me a chance to answer. "I noticed you left a few things in your room. I was going to ship them to you, but then figured you'd be home for Christmas in a few months. You can get them then," she continued. I pretended to listen.

At eighteen years old, my mother and I looked like twins. I'd grown into the spitting image of her, which wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hate her so much. It unnerved me. We both stood five-foot-seven inches tall. We had the same thick, wavy brown hair and light brown eyes. While mom preferred designer labels and heels, I'd made leggings and oversized shirts my uniform.

I know hating your mother was cliché, but I had good reason. My mother was delusional. Not in a crazy, mentally ill kind of way, but in the strict translation of the word. She believed things with strong conviction despite evidence to the contrary.

I heard her tell a friend once how she molded her moody and reclusive daughter into a brilliant musician. It was her patience and focus, which enabled me to earn a scholarship to the University of Texas at Austin. To Mom, it didn't matter how I got here; the fact I got here proved she did something right. Did I mention my mother was delusional?

Silence filled the line. I hadn't noticed that she stopped speaking.

"Hello."

"How's your roommate?" she asked and paused this time to allow me to answer.

"She is fine," I said.

"Well, tell me about her, where's she from, what does she look like?" The interrogation started again.

I avoided her questions once again, holding strong to the promise I made to myself when I arrived on campus. I didn't want my parents in my life any longer. The decisions they made for me during my first eighteen years didn't work out so well. It turned me into someone I didn't like. Moving far away gave me a chance to forget about my past and start my new life.

I pretended to listen for a few more minutes. I sensed an opening, which may or may not have interrupted my mother's favorite speech.

"Don't hide behind your piano. Get out there and enjoy yourself."

"Ahha, I got to go." I hung up minutes later. With any luck, I wouldn't have to speak to them for another few months.

I continued to sit on the unyielding ground; my butt protested, but I didn't want to take my anxiety into the practice room. With limited access until next week, I would only have a couple of hours, and that wasn't enough time to get rid of the pounding in my head. For the first time, in a long time, I took my mom's advice and headed back to the dorm to find Darcy. My new roommate had appointed herself our freshman social director.

 Freshman orientation had me feeling like the first day of kindergarten all over again. I recalled how scared I felt. Not knowing what to do or say. Hoping no one made fun of my clothes and praying I wouldn't pee in my pants before the day was over. That was exactly how I felt now.

I came to school in Texas to get as far away from my old self and my old life as I could. The idea was to create a new life, but I had no clue what type of life I wanted. Normal felt too grand of an expectation. Darcy came to school to find a husband. Not my goal, but if it allowed me the opportunity to experience a normal college life, Darcy would be the perfect guide.

I found Darcy near the dorm, and we headed to Jester Hall for dinner. As we entered, my immediate reaction was to turn around and walk away. The constant motion of students made me dizzy. School had started.

We grabbed some sandwiches, and I followed Darcy as she worked the room. She waved and smiled at everyone as we made our way across the crowded dining hall. She'd been on campus for three days. How did she know everyone? I started to rethink my escape plan, but I was too far in, Darcy wouldn't let me escape even if I wanted to.

My new roommate, Darcy Jane Albritton, was a true southern belle from Magnolia, Arkansas. When we received our dorm assignments, a handwritten letter from Darcy followed soon after. As soon as I opened the envelope, little multicolor pieces of Longhorn confetti spilled out on my lap. That was Darcy. She invaded people's space but in a pretty, glittery, charming manner. It would have made anyone smile, but not me. It freaked me out. Glittery and charming I was not, but maybe I needed to be to survive attending college in the South.

I wanted to make a good impression, or at the least not alienate her before we met in person. I answered her letter with an email, and we continued to trade emails until we were due at school. She peppered her emails with questions. I answered them, but if my answers were vague, she didn't seem to care.

She filled her emails with detailed descriptions of life in the South. She provided me with a little glossary of southern terms, phrases, and other tidbits of information. One of my favorite; Never date Arkansas boys, only date Texas men. Arkansas boys may have farming money and ranching money, but Texas men have oil money. Enough said.

I read it and laughed out loud, but in that pit in the bottom of my stomach I told you about, it was growing.

What am I getting myself into?